


like a drum (my heart never stops beating)

by TheoMiller



Series: vaguely marvel verse [1]
Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, vaguely based in Marvel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoMiller/pseuds/TheoMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concern, sympathy, exasperation, fondness. OR, five times Fisk killed a target, and one time he saved his target's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a drum (my heart never stops beating)

I. Mr. Mallory

 “Sorry,” Fisk says, when Mallory struggles. “Really, I am.”

He says it every time. Fisk doesn’t even believe himself, but it seems to help some of the people.

Mallory screams into the pillow with the last bit of air in his lungs, and Fisk has to take a shortcut to escape the wife’s PA. A shortcut out the window. But it doesn’t matter, because his target’s dead.

II. Mrs. Mallory

He hates going back. He has to change his entire plan, and the PA is a paranoid bastard. He’s not allowed to take out an extra target without permission, so he carefully times his movements through the hallways. It’s exhilarating, in the way hands-on missions always are. His lips curve when he narrowly avoids the PA, again, and kills the widow with his usual knife, whispers “I’m sorry”.

Another success.

III. Mr. Worthington

Philanthropists are easy. Fisk waits until he goes to a charity event and snipes him through a window. It’s a clean shot, the man dies immediately.

IV. Cpt. Albratross

Military men are tough. Paranoid. Fisk knocks out a deliveryman, dons his cap, and raps his knuckles on the good captain’s door. When he answers the door, already reaching for the still-warm pizza, Fisk tilts his head and says, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Fisk shoots him in the head instead of answering.

V. Mr. Burke

Unfortunately for Fisk, not every kill goes so smoothly. Burke spooks, spots Fisk, and crushes his wrist – Fisk hears the pops – in one beefy hand while Fisk nimbly switches the blade to his left and cuts his throat (but not before Burke gets off a shot with his pathetically small handgun). He stands there, blade and bullet wound dripping blood onto the body, wrist pulled tight against his chest, with the distinct impression he’s going to pass out. It’s then that he realizes he has an audience.

“You need medical attention,” says the stranger.

Fisk manages to say, “No hospitals,” and get an agreement before his vision goes a bit fuzzy.

He’s aware enough of his surroundings to know he’s being helped up the stairs, a shirt that isn’t his held tightly to his side, and calculates a few plans to overpower the man if he tries anything funny. But he doesn’t. He just lets him into an apartment and guides Fisk into a chair.

“It’s through and through,” the man tells him, as he examines the bullet hole. “It’ll hurt, and bleed quite a bit, but you’ll recover entirely. Here, take this, it’ll help with the pain.”

Fisk’s pretty sure he’s already been compromised, so he doesn’t even bother resisting. The pills are bitter, and they don’t help the pain at first, but he barely notices because the man is cleaning and dressing his wound with remarkable efficiency.

“Keep that clean and change it regularly,” the man murmurs. “You can come to me if you need it.”

"I'm a killer," Fisk says. He isn't sure why he says it, and he wonders if the tablet he was given contained sodium thiopental.

"I know," says the man, taking Fisk’s wrist. "But it doesn't mean you shouldn't get medical care. Deep breath, count to ten, all right? I need to manipulate your carpal bones back into place."

Fisk remains still and silent, mouthing the numbers, and at six, the man moves quickly, and the pain in Fisk's wrist sharpens and then fades.

"Sorry," the man tells him. It sounds the way it does when Fisk says it to his targets. Not apologetic, but not insincere. "How's it feel?"

Fisk rotates his wrist. Then, "Better," he says.

"Good."

The man has a strange expression on his face. Fisk has never seen it before, on anyone. Fisk is well versed in expressions: attraction, pity, fear, satisfaction, anger, frustration, hatred, grief, confusion. This one is new to him.

"If you ever want out, I'm here."

Fisk stares at him.

"You can sleep here until the painkiller wears off. But if you need to report back, you should go now. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Run," Fisk tells him, and then shoves the man away so he can cross to the window. It's only a twelve foot drop to the fire escape. He can be gone before this man reaches a phone.

"I'll be here."

+I. Mr. Sevenson, NP

He is the man who reset Fisk's wrist, and he is a mutant. A powerful one.

Fisk breaks into his apartment. Michael is sleeping. This is by design rather than accident; Fisk has been casing his target for weeks at this point - he can't afford to be sloppy with a mutant, especially not one who knows about Roseman.

He pulls out his knife and creeps towards the bed, leaning over him to—something stops the knife, like an invisible wall over Michael’s body. A pillow meets the same barrier. His guns refuse to fire. He sets a fire, it fizzles out. He reaches out to drag Michael from the bed, he’s stopped. If he reaches out to push strands of hair out of Michael’s sleeping face, he’s met with no resistance, though he isn’t sure why the urge struck him in the first place.

When Michael wakes up, Fisk is sitting in the chair in the corner of the bedroom.

“Ah,” he says. “Did you try and kill me?”

“Yes,” Fisk grits out.

Michael, damn him, smiles. “How’d that work out?”

When Fisk doesn’t reply, Michael says something about breakfast and shuffles out of the bedroom. Fisk approaches the bed. The knife lodges into the mattress without a problem.

Something smells strange, so Fisk ventures out into the main apartment and is immediately confronted with the strange expression again. He decides to call it Unknown Expression #1.

“It’s not going to work,” Michael says. His expression is different from Unknown Expression #1, but it’s still something Fisk can’t identify. He grudgingly labels it Unknown Expression #2. “I sleep, but the abilities don’t.”

“I’ve never failed a mission before,” Fisk says. He doesn’t say that he doesn’t intend to now, either; he thinks Michael hears it anyway.

Michael sets a plate down in front of Fisk, and Fisk stares at the strange, grid-patterned square of food for a moment before sniffing it cautiously.

“Ah,” Michael says. “You’ve never had waffles before, have you?”

Fisk shakes his head, and watches with great suspicion as Michael cuts it into quarters. He puts different things on top of three quarters, and leaves one be. Fisk nibbles at it first. It’s warm, which is at least familiar, but the taste is nothing like bread rations, and it feels weird in his mouth.

The next square is covered with something that’s translucent brown and very sticky. Fisk hates the way it gets all over his hands and the corners of his mouth, but it’s easily the best thing he’s ever had, so he eats the whole thing and scoops up the rest of the liquid with his finger and eats that, too.

Michael laughs, a sound he’s only heard a few people make, and Fisk startles. “Sorry,” says Michael, Expression #2 returning. “It’s just, I used to do that too. As a kid.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Fisk guesses.

“Well,” says Michael, “a little.”

Fisk picks up the bottle of the brown liquid and commits the name to memory – maple syrup, imitation maple flavor. “Jack makes fun of me too.”

“Who’s Jack?” Confusion. That much, Fisk can read.

“Another killer. He shares a bunk with me. He trained me, so they’ll probably send him after you if I fail. You should give him waffles, too, before he kills you. He’ll like them.”

Michael’s making another expression. It looks a bit like frustration, but also sort of like resignation. It gets labelled as Unknown Expression #3. Michael’s introducing a lot of new things, and Fisk wants to be able to handle all of them next time they appear. He doesn’t want to fail anymore, after Michael.

“Try the bananas,” Michael prompts, and Fisk eyes the pale yellow discs on the next bit of waffle.

It doesn’t pass the sniff test, so Fisk shoves it off his plate and towards Michael. “Smells bad,” he said. “Is it poison?”

“No,” says Michael. “It’s fruit. Lots of potassium.”

“It smells bad,” Fisk repeats, and studies the last square. This one _had_ something on it, but now it just looks a little damp. It’s good, when Fisk eventually gives it a nibble, and he adds as much maple syrup as the grid can hold before he finishes it off.

Michael laughs again, and Fisk attempts a smile. He can’t tell how it works, because it’s Unknown Expression #1 that appears in response, but that train of thought is quickly derailed by Michael saying, “Are you working on a plan to kill me?”

“No,” Fisk says, even though he really should be. “I’m trying to figure out what that face you’re making means.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, the one that looks scared but also sad and like you’re about to ask a question.”

“When did I make it?”

“Just now. And when you fixed my wrist.”

Michael’s face clears. Recognition. “That’s concern. It means I’m worried about your wellbeing.”

“I know what concern means,” Fisk snaps. He’s just… never seen it. But it seems pretty self-evident, except for one thing. “Why?”

And that’s #2. “Because you have to ask that. So, what’s your plan?”

“I’m not allowed to go back until you’re dead,” Fisk explains. “So, uh, thanks for the waffles, but I’m still going to kill you.”

“You’re welcome for the waffles, and you’re never going to succeed. Want to come to work with me? Maybe I’ll use my powers enough that they’ll wear off and you can put a knife between my ribs,” Michael says sardonically, with a fake smile.

Fisk fakes a smile back.

He does, in fact, follow Michael to work. There’s a pretty nurse with red hair who smiles at Fisk in a way that doesn’t look fake. “Another shadow of yours?” she says.

“His name is...” Michael hesitates, glancing at him.

“Fisk,” says Fisk.

Michael makes a new expression that Fisk labels #4. “Come on, my usual spot is this way.” It’s a crowded clinic, and Fisk’s got the distinct impression everyone is staring, even though he logically knows he’s totally nondescript.

“Don’t worry,” says Michael, as he pulls the curtains closed around a bed. “People come here with me all the time. Hop up, I need to change the dressing.”

“You’re an idiot,” Fisk tells him, even as he sits on the hospital bed and lifts his shirt’s edge. “Seriously, your apparent invulnerability does not give you the excuse to be so stupid with your life.”

Michael peels the top bandage away and grins up at Fisk. “Bitter?”

“I have an excellent success rate,” says Fisk. “Just because you’re a bit of a challenge, that doesn’t mean I’m no longer an asset. I’ll kill you, and then I can go back.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen, but I admire your optimism. There, you should be fine for a while, but you’re going to need antibiotics, since you were an idiot with your much more fragile life, and didn’t get it changed like I told you to.”

“Thanks, Nurse Michael,” replies Fisk acerbically.

“For someone who’s never had a waffle, you sure have a good grasp of sarcasm, Fisk.”

It’s the first time Michael’s said his name. Fisk’s face feels hot. He’s pretty sure he will, in fact, need the antibiotics, because this feels like a fever.

“Come on,” says Michael. “I’ll teach you the basic diagnostic questions so we can work through patients faster.”

By the end of the first week, Fisk is officially a volunteer. The pretty nurse, whose name is Rosamund, shoves a pair of scrubs covered in tiny horses at him and gives him a badge.

He sleeps on Michael’s couch. He learns to make waffles. More and more, when he approaches Michael, the invisible barrier isn’t there, because the man’s strange mutant abilities know he doesn’t mean harm.

Soft. Fisk’s getting soft. It’s not Michael who’s stopping the bullets now. It’s something in Fisk’s own head.

He finds a payphone and calls the only number he knows that isn’t Michael’s. Jack picks up immediately, and neither of them speak for a moment. Then, “I’ve got someone who specializes in depowering mutants,” Jack tells him.

The only thing keeping Michael alive is his ability to cheat death. Michael, with his weird facial expressions and his quick retorts and his waffle iron. Fisk hangs up.

He can’t tell Michael what he’s done. So he just sits there, staring at him, and Michael’s concern slowly fades to resignation.

“How long do I have?” Michael asks, and Fisk shrugs.

Expression #2 makes an appearance, but it looks angrier than usual. Fisk holds up the mirror and says, “What does it mean?”

“Exasperation,” says Michael. He looks defeated now, though. “I’m surprised you don’t know what it is. You give me that expression all the time.”

Fisk sets the mirror face-down. He isn’t one for looking too closely at himself. “You need to run,” he says.

Michael laughs, but it sounds wrong. “This is where I belong. I won’t be driven out by fear.”

“You goddamn idiot,” says Fisk, staring at him. “You’ll die. Your stupid nobility will actually get you killed this time.”

“Maybe. But I’ll go down fighting, if I do.”

Fisk scowls at him, and Michael points. “See, look, that’s it, that’s the face right there.”

Then everything goes to hell. Jack bursts through the window, the glass bouncing away from Michael like rain off of a tin roof, and points a gun at Fisk’s head. Apparently he’s enough leverage, because Michael immediately stops moving and lifts his hands above his head.

Jack doesn’t look at Fisk as he carefully clears the apartment of weapons.

“Oh,” Fisk says. Then, to Michael, “I’m going to be deactivated.” He’s telling Michael that because it means he’ll die either way, that it’s okay for Michael to fight for his life without concern for Fisk. But Michael’s a stupid, stubborn sonuvabitch who doesn’t move.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Jack says. It’s the kind of sorry Fisk says to targets before they die. It’s not associated with Expression #2 the way Michael’s are.

That’s when Michael springs into action, tackles Jack to the ground and away from Fisk. The gun goes off, and it takes Fisk a moment to realize he isn’t the one who’s been shot.

He pulls Michael free of Jack before Jack can recover from the impact and get to the knife in his boot, and snatches the gun up. “You’re lucky it didn’t ricochet,” Fisk tells him.

Jack grins at him and sits up to take a languid pose. “It couldn’t have. He’s defenseless. I told you I had a contact, didn’t I?”

Fisk suddenly registers Michael’s labored breathing and the blood smeared across the hardwood floors and Jack’s gear. “You—you actually shot him,” Fisk says. “You shot Michael?”

“If you finish him off, Roseman will let you back in the fold,” says Jack. “I’ll convince him. I won’t even blame you for poaching my kill.”

“I’m sorry,” Fisk says, and he doesn’t mean it. Jack’s body thuds to the floor, and he drops the gun as he falls to his knees at Michael’s side. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and then repeats it until he means it, tears his shirt off to hold it to Michael’s side.

For the first time in his career, Fisk is still in the room with his target when the paramedics arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> Assassin!Fisk ended up being strangely adorable.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [like a drum (my heart never stops beating) : podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803125) by [freckleon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleon/pseuds/freckleon)




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